


Vénus et Apollon

by rawquelicious



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (almost) everyone is a girl!, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexuality, F/F, Gen, Idiots in Love, Lesbians, Multi, Non-Binary Jean Prouvaire, Pining Enjolras, a lot of girls loving girls, a lot of pining, idiots fighting, the hairdresser AU you never knew you needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-28 23:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15717054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawquelicious/pseuds/rawquelicious
Summary: Enjolras decides to shave her head on a Monday. That’s how she ends up walking into a small salon with a neon sign, “Vénus et Apollon”, and painted on the window below it, “Salon de Coiffeur et Beauté”.Or: the one where they are all girls, except for Marius.





	Vénus et Apollon

Enjolras wakes up at 6.00 with no alarm clock, like she’s been doing every day for almost ten years. She rolls out of bed, rubs her bleary eyes, and takes a moment to breathe deeply before unfolding one long tan leg in front of the other, ready to fight her way through the day. She moves to the kitchen to put the coffee maker on before she even goes to the bathroom and looks at herself.

She runs her fingers through her blonde curls, and decides to get her head buzzed.

It’s a combination of several factors that led her to this decision, namely:

  * Her hair is too heavy.
  * It’s hot.
  * It’s sweaty.
  * Her face does not look like her face.
  * It’s too beautiful.
  * She wants to do it.
  * Today she already planned to have an actual lunch hour



Somehow, even though Enjolras has been friends with Prouvaire for years, it doesn’t even occur to her to ask Jehan for her clippers and doing it herself. Getting your hair cut is something you do in a salon. These are the rules she grew up with, and so Enjolras will do it in the first salon she sees with no waiting time, and that will be that, thank you very much.

It’s not a big decision. In fact, like most of the decisions Enjolras makes about her body, it feels very small.

Combeferre was the one who once told her:

“This body does not matter”, she said, “It’s just a vessel for what you are. It’s a tool that you were given".

She leaves the bathroom having made this decision and feeling pleased with it, already pulling her leggings over her hips and grabbing a random sports bra from the range hanging on the shower curtain rod (two sports bras, one nude cotton one, old, one lace bralette, probably Courfeyrac’s).

She grabs her coffee, downs it burning her mouth and throat, and is out of the house by 6.15. Back with the key in the door at 7.45, shower in 15 and at her bed/desk/table/oasis in her miniscule apartment, laptop in her lap and another cup of coffee by her side by 8.00.

Sharp.

The cursor flashes, black and gone again, back and gone again. A deep breath, like she’s about to dive underwater,

(cold lake water from summers spent in Cuomo, memories of being outside of her body and watching herself, a golden fish swimming deep.)

It’s already 12.35 when she glances up from her thesis, 2.000 words later, still in her boxers and tank top, and she realizes she was supposed to have lunch today.

(“Putain!”)

She’s also supposed to be back at school at 13.00 to meet with Combeferre for the aforementioned lunch, before having to assist professor Valjean’s 14.00 class.

Here is the math on that:

  * It takes 30m of vigorous cycling to get from her apartment to the Latin Quarter.
  * Combeferre is always five minutes late.
  * Enjolras is still going to shave her head.



“Putain".

She swears again and is out of the bed (presently being a desk) tearing her top off, finding a pair of black pants on the floor and a white shirt that she’s pretty sure is Combeferre’s but it’s reasonably clean and professional enough for the Pátheon. Still very sharp.

She hasn't met Grantaire yet, but she would say, “like a knife”.

There is no spring in her step when she leaves her ground floor apartment and locks it behind her, struggling with her bike for a moment before finally freeing it from the building’s tiny door and emerging to the bright light of June in Paris. It makes everything look cleaner than it is, from the trash in the narrow street, to the kebab joint next door (with its evil evil delicious smells that invade her recently vegan home.)

(It’s been a struggle.)

She moves with single minded purpose and precision. She’s 1,75m of woman but looks much taller when she speeds through Parisian streets, mostly on account of the red bike but also just the general aura of Enjolras. People move away from her, and it’s not even out of fear, it’s just that even to the untrained eye the blonde amazon always looks like someone very much in a hurry.

Here is the thing you must now have realized about Enjolras: her methodical obsession with time doesn’t mean she’s never late, more so that she’s always late. At the end of the day, the universe has still not been able to convince Enjolras that she cannot control every single part of it, time included, and so she keeps trying.

That’s how she ends up walking into a small salon with a neon sign, “Vénus et Apollon”, and painted on the window below it, “Salon de Coiffeur et Beauté”.

Inside, it is aggressively pink and apparently empty, a small space that smells like hairspray and shampoo, that attacking ofaltive sweetness that is almost as pink as the rest of the pink hair washing basins, pink old school chairs, pink frames on the mirrors hanging in pink walls. Behind a pink curtain dividing the space she can hear people laughing and talking in a language she does not understand but that she's heard before (Arabic, maybe?). Enjolras stands by the entrance feeling awkward and then glances at her watch and sort of coughs politely hoping that will be enough to summon someone with the necessary skills and knowledge to shave her head.

A girls comes from behind the curtain, still mid laugh for someone beyond Enjolras’ line of sight, but she stops in her tracks when she sees her customer, with her mouth still open and her eyes slightly wide.

“Bonjour”, Enjolras starts and then waits for a awkward moment for a reply that never comes, “I- I want an haircut?”

She almost wants to kill herself immediately for phrasing it like a question, sounding like an insecure school girl when she’s an actual grown ass woman. It’s just that this girl is looking at her like not many people have looked at Enjolras before, like she can’t quite believe her.

And what a girl she is. Short, tiny really, with the sort of cool girl haircut (short blunt bangs, shaved on the sides, the rest of it in a high ponytail with these sorts of wisps artistically falling from it and framing her face), that Enjolras secretly finds very intimidating especially when paired with sharp cheekbones, smart bright brown eyes lined in thick smudged black eyeliner. To make matters worse, the girl has a septum ring.

Enjolras sort of wants to die.

She has never even seen anyone close to pulling off the sort of pink shirt dress uniform that the girl is wearing with any sort of dignity, let alone style.

They look at each other for one more moment, before the girl seems to snap out of it:

“Right! Right, for sure you’d come in wanting to cut your hair - Ahah! Yes, haircuts. We do haircuts here”, she pulls a huge planner and opens it on the 14th June. It’s not the 14th. Enjolras feels like she should point that out, but then she notices that the planner is actually from 1983 and she closes her mouth again, with what seems like a loud pop that Grantaire mercifully ignores, “You’re in luck! I can start on you right away".

“I would expect so, yes". Enjolras tries to keep her tone light and nice like people usually talk, but the sharp look the short dark girl gives her tells her she was not successful. “I mean, there’s no one else here. So".

“You don’t know that”, the girl points out.

“I mean, I don’t know for sure but I see”, Enjolras starts speaking very slowly, mostly so she can control the sudden flare of annoyance, “No people".

“Do you think I’m dumb?” The girl interrupts, looking furious, so much so that Enjolras finds herself raising her hands as if she’s in the presence of an unfriendly cat who suddenly went all the way feral.

There is a long pause where Enjolras asks herself how she ended up being an asshole just because she wants an haircut.

There is actual danger vibrating in the air, or something close to it, but then the girl shakes her head and puts on a huge smile. It’s too big and fake in her face especially when she closes the 1983 planner with a loud bang that makes Enjolras jump and finally lower her hands, feeling ridiculous.

(A part of Enjolras wants to say, don’t smile for me, just stay angry and sharp, I like your eyebrows moving to the center of your face like that, like birds about to catch flight.)

(She doesn’t say it, of course, but she makes a note to go to sleep earlier tonight since clearly her 4 hours are clearly not cutting it.)

“My name is Grantaire”, the girl restarts, in a voice so high and cheery that it reads even more sarcastic than before, “And I’ll be cutting your hair today, your grace goddess Apollo".

Enjolras really wishes this haircut journey was going better. She also wishes she was the kind of person who takes insults that may as well be compliments but that may also be historically inaccurate, and who would just stay quiet about it.

“I’m not- Apollo was, I mean, gender in Ancient Greece was complicated, for sure, but-”, she can see Grantaire roll her eyes even though she’s following the girl, so she suddenly apparently does become the sort of person who just trails off with a “Thank you?”

It’s like hearing someone else speak using her mouth, and she’s ready to kill this annoying stammering mess of a girl.

Except Grantaire nudges her towards the chair with a hand on her lower back, already talking in that professional pitter-patter way hairdressers use with people they don’t like. And the air suddenly feels very stuffy, and Enjolras feels a warm tingling in the place where Grantaire’s palm was pressed against her, and she is used to not being liked, really, she is. She doesn’t care if this girl does not like her, if she does not even ask her name.

Sitting down provides the following magical perspective change: Grantaire is now taller than her. It makes Enjolras swallow hard, feeling her throat suddenly dry as the look in the hairdresser’s eyes turns into something very soft and intimate and she raises her hand to tangle it in golden curls. The feeling of soft fingers touching her neck, making her way through her hair, it makes Enjolras want to go for a run right out of her own body. The girl’s eyebrows knit together and her brown eyes spark when she asks what kind of care Enjolras takes with her hair (“I wash it". “With what?” “Er… Those 3-in-1 things?” “You don’t even moisturize?!” “One of the three is moisturizer”) and Enjolras finds herself thinking of one of those Shakespeare sonnets Jehan used to read out loud all the time, during those horrifying five minutes when they were in love with Combeferre.

_(My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun,)_

Enjolras is a law student. Whatever is happening here, she is not ready to deal with it.

“So, tell me my lovely Apollo, what are we going to do today?” Grantaire finally asks, and while she does this she keeps running her fingers through Enjolras’ hair, scrapes her fingernails on her scalp and god, what is happening? From this angle Enjolras can see the bottom of a tattoo Grantaire has on her upper arm, half covered by the uniform sleeve.

“Sorry, what?” Enjolras asks weakly, feeling slow like she's thinking through molasses, “Oh, yes, my hair. I want to shave it off".

An half-choked sound escapes Grantaire’s lips, and she actually pulls distractedly the curls at the base of Enjolras’ hair, which makes the blonde girl hiss involuntarily, and then blush. It's good that Grantaire doesn't notice, mostly because she starts laughing hysterically, “I’m not doing that!” She says between gasping breaths that sound a bit more panicked than mirthful.

To say that this is the strangest experience Enjolras’ has ever had in a salon, is to say too little.

“What do you mean you’re not doing that? I can pay”, she says, back to enunciating slowly, which she can see makes Grantaire’s neck tendon pop out. She feels a sudden urge to do it forever and just watch the way her neck moves, thinks for just a split second how her skin would taste if Enjolras would put her mouth there and bite -

“No, the problem isn’t your money”, Grantaire interrupts her thoughts sharply, and thank god for that, “I’m just not doing it! You shouldn’t do it either, no one should do it, and I would seriously consider killing, or at least seriously maiming the person who does". Enjolras is about to interrupt but it seems that Grantaire, now that she’s gotten into it, cannot stop talking, and while she does it she continues running her hands through Enjolras’ hair with that wide eyed wild look, like she’s surprised to . Her voice is low and urgent, a growl that Enjolras is sure she is feeling through the fingertips touching her scalp, “Touching that hair, touching your hair, should be a special, special thing, only between you and someone who not only you trust, but who the rest of Humanity can also trust as not to wreck the fucking masterpiece your parents created by accident when they rubbed their genitals together. I will never sleep soundly again knowing that you and your hair are out there and someone even worse and more worthless than me could at any time touch it, touch you, and actually shave it… This will haunt me forever".

“Wh-What?” Enjolras asks weakly.

“Let’s negotiate". Grantaire claps suddenly, mercifully letting go of her hair and making her jump, “I’m willing to compromise on an undercut if all that beautiful angelic weight is bothering you. We’ll shave the bottom and the sides and make a nice curly pixie sort of bowl cut on top. Trop cool, non?”

“I don’t understand what any of those words mean”, it comes out sounding a lot more tired than she felt before walking into Vénus et Apollon, “Look, Grantaire, I just want a haircut. I have the money. This is how it works, I will pay you, and you will provide me the required service".

Grantaire crosses her arms and cocks her hip to the side, leaning on the sink and fixing Enjolras with a withering look, “Are you explaining how capitalism works to me now? Don’t you think I may have a slight better clue than you, Mademoiselle ‘I’m getting a haircut on a Monday afternoon and yelling at a poor brown person’?”

“What are you even talking about?” Enjolras finally snaps. “What the fuck?” She almost never curses. If Combeferre or Courfeyrac were here, they would see or feel or fucking sense with their special Enjolras sense that she was about to explode, and stop it. As it stands, alone with the most infuriating hair professional she has ever met, Enjolras is now jumping up, scattering away from the chair, and filled with righteous anger. As soon as she gets up she knows it was the right choice because Grantaire really is tiny, and being angry feels so so so good. Putting at least 20 plus centimeters between her and those maddening eyebrows is definitely the best idea Enjolras has ever had.

(To our non-decimal system readers, this is about 7 inches, or, in Grantaire’s parlance, a respectfully sized dick.)

Enjolras takes full advantage of her height, pulling away from that weird tentative version of herself she didn't even know existed before she walked into this damn salon, “Enough".

Her voice thunders. It’s beautiful. She raises a finger and puts it right up to Grantaire’s face, just because she can and it feels good, like releasing tension with a good stretch at the end of a run.

“That is enough”, she stresses the last syllable and really straightens herself, pulls her shoulders back and her chin up, and ignores the small intake of breath from Grantaire, “This is not a negotiation. This is my body, and my hair, if I want it shaved and dyed pink then I’ll have it done. Because it’s mine!” her voice is creeping on hysterical right now.

That is when three things happen in very quick succession:

  1. Enjolras glances at her watch, on her right wrist, the pointer finger of the corresponding hand is still waving in Grantaire’s face. The watch says 12.47.
  2. They must have been screaming now, because she can hear a woman’s voice coming closer mid-shout “Grantaire, c’est quoi ce bordel?”
  3. She turns to the voice, and Grantaire bites her finger.
  4. She actually bites her finger.
  5. Like, she’s an adult and she just bit Enjolras’ finger. The only good thing anyone can say about this moment is that Grantaire looks as shocked at herself as Enjolras’ feels, and they both look at the bitten finger with shared horror.
  6. Unable to continue to deal with this situation, Enjolras flees.



It’s the first time in her life she runs away from something.

 

 

Over a very quick standing lunch at the Pathéon cafeteria:

“Combeferre, I feel like you aren’t listening. She bit me. I was bitten by a crazy hairdresser, and I don’t feel you’re taking my feelings seriously, not as my doctor and certainly not as my friend".

“Well, and I feel like Courfeyrac’s positive communication workshop has worked wonders for you. I see your feeling, and I respect it”, Combeferre says with a mocking smile, “But was it really that bad? It didn’t even break skin. Either way, in three months we can do a full blood work and-”

“I may have rabies, AIDS, I-”

“It didn’t break skin, should I explain to you how AIDS works?”

“It was still assault! She bit me!”

Combeferre is one of the few people in the world that can make Enjolras feel small, especially when she leans in with a blindingly white smile and pushes her gold rimmed glasses up her nose fixing Enjolras with a knowing look, “Sorry if I’m not taking your concern seriously, it’s hard to do so when you’ve taken several detours from your story to tell me about this girl’s eyebrows".

Enjolras blushes and stabs a tomato with her fork just so she can avoid looking her oldest friend in the eye, “I wanted to make sure I can identify her to the police” she mumbles darkly.

Combeferre suddenly leans back and grows somber, “You’re not really going to report this girl, are you?”

“No, of course not, I’m not a pig. I’m just- She annoyed me”, she ends up confessing even though it feels small and ridiculous, “I just wanted to cut my hair".

Her friend signals the lady to bring them two espressos and then puts her hand on her shoulder, “I know love, but it’s not that bad, is it? Just ask Jehan to do it".

“I should’ve just done that".

“Ah, oui, but bourgeoise habits of going for fancy haircuts are hard to lose”, Combeferre light mocking makes her finally smile back, “What was the name of this terrible salon, then? Just so I can always avoid it and this girl’s eyebrows".

So Enjolras tells her.

It’s not very frequent that she, or anyone actually, makes Combeferre laugh (though Courfeyrac tries valiantly), so when she actually doubles over Enjolras fears that 24hr shifts and the weight of modern medicine has finally broken her friend.

She gets more concerned when Combeferre recovers her impeccable posture, takes her glasses off so she can clean them, and says, “Oh, we’ve been wondering when you’d meet Grantaire”.

 

Back at the Vénus et Apollon, over a new manicure effort:

“I bit her! With my mouth! Oh fuck Ponine I’m so fucked”, a siren blaring outside makes Grantaire jump up and mangle the line of a flowery white design she’s practicing on Éponine, “That’s it, the cops are coming for me. Goodbye sweet ‘Ponine, it was good to have known you, I don’t suppose I’ll do well in prison”.

“Actually, I think you’d do great, they love a dramatic biting bitch over there”.

“Musichetta yelled so much. I thought she was going to pop a vein. She said she would fire me."

“Well, you did bite a customer."

“So much yelling, you’d think I killed one”, Grantaire mutters darkly, “And extra hours cleaning for the rest of the month, unpaid obviously because I’m a fucking slave to this woman.” Éponine raises one eyebrow and Grantaire is forced to shrug and move on from complaining about Musichetta, Patron Saint of Lost Girls, to complaining about the strange woman who’s been in her every other thought, “But you should've seen this girl Ponine, she was the most beautiful person I have ever seen. She was being followed by a perfectly placed sun ray at all times, she was bending the laws of physics with her beauty. She is a Bernini marble come to life, do you understand? Apollo as a fair parisian maiden -”

“Not to be like, fake deep or anything, but isn’t that Artemis?”

“No no, she possesses the warmth of someone who is always about to put people in their place. Even though I could see her as a vengeful virgin killing rapists and evil men. But she's golden, all this beautiful blonde hair cascading down her back like she's a fucking Renaissance painting, and Ponine she is so so tall, she has the most perfect nose, so straight and long, and you could see her hip bones poking through her trousers like she was a damn model...”

“Were there infatuated baby animals following her, or was that just you?” Éponine sniggers while she blows on her right hand nails, now decorated with tastefully tacky bridal roses on top of a nude coat, “She sounds like a Disney princess, not like a fucking bitch about to get you arrested”.

“She's not a bitch.” Grantaire admits with defeat, and drops her head to the table with a thud, “I was the bitch, the bitch was inside the salon all along. But god be good, how was I supposed to cut one of his most beautiful works?”

Éponine almost rolls her eyes right out of her head at her despairing friend, but the effect is lost when Grantaire is busy moaning dramatically about her pain and banging her head on the table, Éponine forced to pat Grantaire on the head, which is basically the only form of comfort they ever engage in. “Okay, okay, why don’t you apologize to her then? Do you know her name?”

Grantaire mumbles and makes whale-like noises.

“I can’t understand that dear, stop sniffing the nail polish or whatever it is you’re up to and come up for air.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you hate yourself and your internalized self-hate makes you lash out at the friends who love you more than anything in this world”, the self-pitying blob that is Grantaire finally sighs and turns her head to the side just so she can look at Éponine and talk like a human.

“No, I didn’t get her name. Because I’m a fucking idiot”, she can’t resist a jab at her friend, “By the way, internalized self-hate? I love it when you go to those white people fighting for justice meetings and come back all self-actualized. Will you start juicing next?”

It’s probably very fair that Éponine smacks her in the head with the glass nail file she was using, since Grantaire knows that her friend only goes to those meetings because she’s been in love with a particular white boy for years and not out of any political hope for the country. Éponine, who has worn the hijab everyday Grantaire has known her, is nothing if not a realist.

“I’ll actualize your face if you keep talking to me like that”, she says casually, “So, forget about her, you’ll probably never see her again. She probably out there about to get her hair cut somewhere she won’t be attacked. Now, are you doing my other hand or should I call Chetta again?”

Grantaire’s answering noise makes the stray dog that lives in their street cry out in pain,  but she does sit up and pick that evil tiny nail polish art brush again.

“You know”, Éponine eventually says in a tone so casual it can only be fake, “You should come to one of those white people meetings one of those days. They’re not that bad, or that white”, Grantaire snorts in disbelief but her friend ignores her because this is not the first time they’ve had this fight, “Do you really think me and Musichetta would go if they were that awful?”

Grantaire’s tongue is sticking out in concentration while she paints a few delicate petals on the tiny canvas of Éponine’s smallest fingernail, so her reply is muffled and despondent:

“Well, for some unfathomable reason you still want to get into Pontmercy’s pants, and we know Chetta is de facto banging Joly and Bossuet, so you guys sort of have an incentive. You expect me to go for morals alone? Have you even met my morals, ever?”

“Dégoulasse”, Éponine moves her finger on purpose to mess up the work, and the string of curses that escapes Grantaire is worth the extra time she’ll have to wait for it to dry, “There is actually this girl there who would be perfect for you, you’d hate her, she’s-”

Éponine stops mid sentence, her eyes widen and are fixed on Grantaire’s concentrated face, with extreme shock painted all over her features. It takes a few moments of silence for Grantaire to look up, “What?” And by this time the look of shock has given way to a creeping smile that widens Éponine’s face, “What?” Grantaire asks again, scared this time.

“Oh. Oh love,” Éponine starts laughing in what can be only described as an evil cackle, “This is going to be fun.”

 

Excerpt from the group chat convo “Scissoring Triad”:

_Musichetta:_

!!!!!

Guess

What

Ponine

Just told me???

_Joly:_

If she finally killed the baker who keeps making terrorist jokes, you really shouldn’t tell us over Whatsapp,

it’s probably being read right now

_Bossuet:_

but we’ll be there with two shovels asap rsrsrsrs

_Joly:_

Allegedly with two shovels.

_Musichetta:_

Have you talked with your fearless leader today?

_Joly:_

She really does not like that

_Bossuet:_

but no lol

sup with her????? and ponine?????

_Musichetta:_

Guess who walked in RANDOMLY for a haircut and got bitten by Grantaire?

_Joly:_

That is the best sentence we’ve ever read.

Bossuet is unable to answer, she has fallen off the bed, she says she’ll love you forever if there is video of the alleged incident.

_Musichetta:_

No video, only a regretful Grantaire on swiping hair duty for the rest of the month

But if you want, there could be

Mischief

_Joly:_

Bossuet is off the floor. We’re listening.

 

 

Enjolras ends up not cutting her hair. She spends the rest of the week lost between her doctorate, helping Prof. Valjean with class planning and revising other people’s master’s thesis,

(was she still this dumb when she was getting her master’s? She is pretty sure she had all her verbs down at that point at least, which seems to be more than these students seem to be capable of.)

Not to mention all the other work, the work that matters, of Les Amis. They have at least two meetings a week, tuesdays and thursdays unless they are planning a protest, which they almost always are.

So, she does not cut her hair purely because she cannot spare the time.

Here’s what she doesn’t do:

  * She doesn’t write, and then delete, at least two text messages to Prouvaire for them to bring their clippers to a meeting and just get this over with.
  * She does not buy a ridiculously expensive hair moisturizing mask from a brand with way too many ads about being organic, fair-trade and cruelty-free. There are so many ads that Enjolras is suspicious, but it turns her normal unrule mane into a golden cloud that engulfs her in a coconut-y vacation-y scent that she will admit she got addicted to way too quickly.
  * She certainly doesn’t start seeing Grantaire on the edge of her vision everywhere, and if she does she would be totally justified because of the fear of being bitten again, okay? Thank you. So, she doesn’t turn her head when a flash of pink crosses her path, doesn’t linger one moment too long looking at the tattooed girl with an undercut who comes to Valjean’s office for guidance, even though she doesn’t even look that much like Grantaire, really.



And that’s why on friday afternoon she knocks directly into Grantaire while running out of the Pátheon campus like a headless chicken (damn you law schools and your multiple campuses, damn you to hell). The shock prompts all the carefully stacked papers she’s carrying to scatter around like confetti because of course it does, that is the sort of life Enjolras is living right now. They immediately kneel and start picking her stuff up, but she can see that Marius’ literature review has ended under a car and she’s not a good enough TA to be killed saving such a convoluted reference system as what Pontmercy has created.

And of course that the first thing she manages to say, when their hands touch over Valjean’s lunch order, is: “What are you doing here?”

Only it comes out more like an angry growl than anything else, and Grantaire tenses immediately. From this distance Enjolras can smell her perfume (something very sweet, and cigarettes underneath that) and could count the dark freckles on her nose, if she wanted to.

“What am I doing here?” Grantaire repeats mockingly, “I could ask you the same.”

“Well, I study here. You seem to be stalking my hair", Enjolras snaps the papers from Grantaire’s hand with more force than what’s needed and gets up, trying to regain whatever dignity left to her. Grantaire follows immediately, crossing her arms and staring at her in open defiance.

“I think you need to get over yourself and your hair Apollo, or do you really think you’re the only pretty blonde I’ve ever stopped from making a major mistake?” the short girl gives her a look that is equal parts sarcastic contempt and, already, anger.

“Excuse me, but are you an actual insane person who got past security? I think you mean to apologize”, Enjolras says haughtily while she thinks very hard if she was not wearing exactly the same clothes on monday as she is today, “You did bite me, remember?”

Today, Grantaire is wearing her hair in two buns on the top of her head, but of course she’s not wearing her uniform. Seriously, all this time glancing at every passing flash of pink, and it didn’t even occur to Enjolras that obviously no one as cool as Grantaire would wear that bubblegum shade on purpose? She’s all in black, her black silk top tucked into high waisted skinny jeans that are rolled up at the ankle, and in her exposed arms Enjolras can fully see that tattoo that was hidden by that kitschy fifties uniform: it’s an illustration of a skull dancing with a wine bottle, made to look like a tarot card, The Fool.

(Of course her jeans are rolled up, Grantaire is tiny. It’s lack of sleep that makes Enjolras think of that night Prouvaire, Joly and Bossuet tried to teach her all the bisexual tropes.)

“I do seem to recall that, yes” Grantaire says overly formally, and it takes a moment for it to dawn on Enjolras that she’s being mocked, “If I say I’m sorry now, can I ask you why you assumed I don’t study here? Did you think that because I am a hairdresser I would spontaneously combust as soon as I walked into the Sorbonne?”

A note here, for our readers: the structure of public university in Paris is not only complex, but also a point of contention so serious that it has caused multiple wars, one or two revolutions, and a few ongoing lawsuits on who, exactly, gets to use the title The Sorbonne. This point of contention is the sort of things parisians love to argue about for hours at a time, all present parties included, obvious classicism notwithstanding.

Enjolras can feel her face grow warm, and she knows she’s turning red, “What? Stop twisting my words and-”

Maybe there is still a god in heaven who loves young revolutionaries who are trying their best, because she is interrupted by a well loved voice:

“Ah, Grantaire, there you are!” Joly waves and is already halfway across the street to meet them before Enjolras can try to understand what the hell is going on. She watches Joly change her cane from her left hand to the right as to better one-arm hug Grantaire and give her two kisses. Enjolras obligingly gets kissed and obligingly kisses back each of Joly’s rosy cheeks before asking:

“You know her, Joly?”

Joly smiles widely and ignores the way Grantaire keeps fuming and seems ready to interrupt and attack Enjolras again at any moment, “Yes, of course, she cuts my hair! And Bossuet’s. And, also, y’know, our girlfriend of three years works with her", Grantaire does interrupt then, “We don’t work together, she’s my boss”, but Joly just waves that tiny detail away and turns to Grantaire continuing, “You needn’t come here to get me R, I could’ve met you at les Beaux-Arts".

“Ah, so you don’t go here", Enjolras says with not a small degree of satisfaction. As soon as it’s out of her mouth, she knows it was absolutely the wrong thing to say.

Grantaire squints vemenously at Enjolras, who wishes she had her hands free so she could open them in that “here is the evidence, ladies and gentlemen” gesture she sometimes sees Valjean use in court to great effect.

“No, I don’t", she spits out after a long dramatic pause, at each word her voice getting louder and more sarcastic, “Watch out buddy, I may get cooties, or even worse, hair dye, over your nice marble college and then what will happen? Chaos, death, children crying in the streets!”

“Well, I was just pointing out that you were factually incorrect before-” they are officially speaking all over each other, and people are starting to look.

“R, you’re screaming”, Joly intervenes helpfully, “And your building is also marble".

“I KNOW I AM SCREAMING”, Grantaire screams louder to make her point, “How is it possible they even allowed me here? God, the standards are low”, she makes this word at least 3 syllabes longer, “aren’t they? They’ll let anyone into college these days. Even hairdressers, imagine that!”

“That’s not what I-” Enjolras tries to defend herself, already incensed by the way this girl seems to always take her best intentions and twist them into something terrible. She desperately wants to explain she’s not this person, in fact, she’s the exact opposite, but Grantaire seems set on believing the worst.

“Yes, yes, you’re very progressive I’m sure, with your nice education and your… What, what do you know Joly from? Are you in that fun “let’s organize a lot of marches that will certainly make everything better” club as well?”

“Grantaire”, Joly places a hand on the girl’s arm as if trying to calm her or warn her that she’s edging into dangerous territory, but once Grantaire gets going it’s very hard to shut her up.

“How could I ever think that you’d still be a pompous snob?” Grantaire finishes with so much sarcasm and rage that Enjolras actually takes a step back, “Fuck you buddy, fuck your hair and you can shove that apology I owe you right up your gorgeously shaped ass. I bit you once and would bite again, so keep those nice pure soft hands away from my fucking mouth. C’mon Joly, you’re buying me lunch".

She turns away and leaves Enjolras mouth gaping, looking at her retreating back and a Joly that is being dragged by her collar more than actually walking

“How is this my fault?”

“Well, she is your friend, isn’t she?” She can still hear them talk, right before they turn the corner.

Enjolras is left feeling like an absolute arse, and also a bit like she’s been trampled by a wild beast.

 

 

Excerpt from the group chat convo “Scissoring Triad”:

_Joly:_

I don’t know if it went great, or if it went terrible, but they certainly didn’t go anywhere.

_Musichetta:_

I love it when you wordplay.

_Bossuet:_

i would word ur play

_Joly:_

That makes no sense but I’ll be home in half an hour so you can both explain it to me.

In bed.

Wink.

_Musichetta:_

Since you insist on writing out your winks, we'll start without you. 

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes:
> 
> \- This is not beta-ed, so please ignore whatever mistakes you will surely find, as english is not my first language and I don't really care for grammar.  
> \- I fudged both geography and the structure of the various faculties of Paris for this story, please consider it artistic liberty. For extra fun: Enjolras' college is *not* the actual Sorbonne nowadays, as the school split into different branches and Law is now taught at the Pathéon-Assas Sorbonne. So her attitude is just an extra layer of poking fun at the classicism of some old schools in Europe.  
> \- I don't know if you can tell, but I'm very european (if not very french).  
> \- If you are french, and most of all parisian, I'm already very sorry.
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you'd like to leave a comment please do, they give me a lot of joy!


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